I’ve been bad lately. Really bad. Physically wrecked, mentally destroyed. Making poor choices, doing stupid things. Two weeks of classic, textbook depression which is actually very rare for me. My main problem is that I feel too many conflicting emotions all at once all of the time. My mood changes minute by minute; often, my mood will dramatically shift several times within 60 seconds, from loving to angry to panicked to amused to tearful to suspicious to caring to hysterical. So when I just feel one feeling (depressed) for anything longer than an hour, it’s very strange. I wait for my mood to change at any moment and when it doesn’t, something is very wrong. It’s just been depression on its own: no anger, no anxiety, no panic, just classic sadness all on it’s own. I’d forgotten what it felt like to just feel one thing. I don’t know which is worse, to feel every emotion simultaneously and have them constantly changing, or to feel one “bad but not the worst” emotion for an extended period of time. Both are awful. Both are exhausting. Either will kill me.
[I’m sharing this on here because I don’t have Bookface or Twatter or Shitchat or What’sthat, and even if I did I’ve successfully ghosted every friend that I would’ve sent this to, so I’m just going to leave it here]
I somehow dragged myself to the psych ward. I knew if I didn’t turn up today they would have sent the Old Bill to my flat. It was the usual appointment: me begging them for help, them saying there’s nothing anyone can do for me, me having a mini-breakdown, them saying, “Take your meds and try to stay alive and we’ll see you in 4 weeks” then shoving me out of the door. I’ve been really depressed about money, or my lack of it. I’m so skint. It’s really got me down. No food, no heating, no hot water, no visit to my dad’s grave. I had one cigarette left and had been saving it for after this appointment, knowing that I would need it to calm me down after leaving the ward in a worse state than I was in when I arrived, as is the custom. I was crying my eyes out. I lit the cigarette and noticed that my boyfriend had vandalised it with a biro: LOVE YOU X
We accept the love we think we deserve. I wish I could accept this but I can’t. It just made me cry even more. He’s so lovely. I don’t know how much longer I can do this for. I’m so fucking tired.
[From my journal, written last month]
I am on the edge of something– waiting to fall or dive or jump– on the edge of the edge. “Go on, fucking push me then!” Empty threats, and I’m still on the edge and they’ve forgotten that I’m there. […] We are standing on the edge of the seasons, everything is beginning to die again and I can’t imagine another Spring. […] There is no point to this pain, there is no point to anything. Everything we say and do doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Everything seems so silly. Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps the point is that there is no point. […] I am so tired, tired of waking up exhausted, tired of being permanently tired, permanently sick, tired of constant pain, constant brain, constant constants, all these fucking constants. So tired of this. And that and him and you and him and her and me and life and being tired. […] I feel and believe that this break will be more catastrophic than the ones before. This is bigger than me. Riding a tsunami without a surfboard. Seeing ahead of me all of the things that I am about to destroy. Can’t stop it, even if I tried. […] I am so full of anger that it shocks and scares me. I am scared of myself and my anger and my (in)capabilities. I don’t know what to do next. “Beyond help.” A damning diagnosis. […] Everything is silly. The point is that there is no point.